Hold Me Back and Make It Last
by kikis2
Summary: Santana's working the late shift in the ER when Rachel comes in looking brutal. Santana finds an unexpected well of compassion. Jesse/Rachel, Santana/Rachel.
1. Chapter 1

In the tenth hour of her night shift at St. Luke's, Santana could be sure of only one thing: time was a meaner bitch than any PMSing Cheerio Lima had spawned. And it might not be on her MD, but she was still the leading authority on mean bitches.

She barely glared at the resident relieving her twenty minutes late, pawning him off to a tough-looking nurse. She grabbed her bag from her locker and made it her mission in life not to make eye-contact on her way out with any bleeder, puker, or over-worked nurse.

"Lopez!"

She ignored the vaguely familiar voice. A lonely side door was in sight, along with a scalding shower and nine hours of uninterrupted sleep. Head down, shoulders squared, she ignored another call of her name. She could, no, _would_ make it out of this place, before the need to commit homicide forced her to regrettable actions.

"San!"

She hesitated a full second before turning around, vicious resignation in her eyes. No one called her by her first name in the hospital. And _no one_ called her by friendly, overly-familiar nicknames.

An uneasy grin settled over her face when she spotted Mike Chang rushing towards her, his lanky body moving far too gracefully considering the coffee in one hand and his obvious exhaustion. It was never an entirely good thing to see people you like outside an emergency ward.

They shared a manly hug with little bodily contact and Santana was reminded of why she could stand the boy. "Hey, Chang. Don't tell me your friends finally wised up and you've been reduced to chillin' with the snifflers and comatose?" It was the subtlest way she could think of asking what he was doing here. Tact wasn't her strong suit.

He gave her a weak smile. "Hey, hospital waiting rooms are a highly undervalued cruising spot."

"Well, I'm not here for humanitarian purposes" she shot back.

"But, seriously San—" He ran his free hand through his hair, leaving it flopped oddly to the side.

"Who, where, and what's wrong with them?" she sighed, already pulling out her basic treatment necessities.

"It's Rachel, Santana. She's talking to a nurse, but I don't know how it's going."

Santana nodded, trying not to wince at the thought of an injured Rachel Berry. Despite living in the same city for two years, she'd only talked to Mike twice and Rachel not at all. After high school they'd gone to different colleges and Santana had never bothered to keep in touch.

That's not to say she hadn't _seen_ Rachel.

She headed to the miniscule consultation rooms where the severity of injuries and necessary treatment was assessed. As soon as she got to the right hallway, she headed towards room 14B, without Mike's directions.

"I shink I should know my ohn blhod pressha!" The incoherent nasal screeches seemed to echo through the floor.

Rachel was perched on the edge of the patient chair, head tipped backwards while two fingers clutched at her nose. Santana immediately took the place of the forlorn looking nurse. She did a quick visual scan of Rachel. Rachel's eyes widened. Well, the one that wasn't almost swollen shut and discoloured widened. The bruising was minimal, but with the amount of swelling apparent, Santana doubted that would last.

"Shanthanya!" Rachel cried in surprise. "Shank you sho much! I shought I'd die in thish god-forshaken hell hole!" Santana barely concealed an eye roll. Most people with severe nose bleeds tended to be too busy trying to breathe to deafen their physicians. Not that she'd expected any condition short of death to keep Berry quiet. At least her airways appeared to be clear. "Phleashe tell me my nhose ishn't broken."

"If your nose was broken, you wouldn't be squeezing it closed, Berry." Santana had a low tolerance for stupid, but she had a soft spot for people in severe pain. And Rachel looked, if anything, tinier than she had in high school and that face looked all kinds of brutal; Santana couldn't bring herself to be as sharp as the girl deserved.

She ran her fingers lightly over Rachel's face. "Feel that?" she asked, gently prodding below Rachel's eyes, "I'd say you have a slight zygomatic fracture. We'll have to get a CT to ensure no further injuries, though." She made the necessary notes on her laptop, simultaneously scanning the spotless and meticulously detailed medical file in front of her.

"So, what happened? Fall off your gnome perch?" She'd usually keep the sarcasm to a minimum during work hours, but technically she was off the clock, and she knew Rachel could take it.

Mike scoffed from behind her shoulder, smothering it at Rachel's weak-assed glare. "I fell," Rachel said, with the best self-deprecating smile she could manage.

Santana cocked her head disbelievingly. As an isolated injury, cheek fractures were damn hard to get. The usual causes were sporting injuries or assault. And Santana knew Rachel's feelings on ball games, probably a result of no one ever being desperate enough to ask her to play. Except for that one time and no one was less impressed than Santana.

She raised her brows at Mike. He didn't look nearly as blasé as Rachel. His eyes locked on Rachel's for a beat. "She fell," he said blandly. "Toppled off a five-foot stage, landed face first on the edge of a chair." Santana didn't respond. "It's true," Mike confirmed quietly.

"Sure." Santana made the note, ignoring the fact that it was common sense that trained dancers didn't land on their heads. Not to mention that wild horses and Sue Sylvester couldn't drag Rachel Berry from a stage.

She ran through a dozen more questions and a thorough physical, before bullying her way to the top of the CT list. She might only be a resident, but she could get an ex-glee loser a scan.

Rachel pulled off her jewellery for Mike to hold on to. Santana and Mike waited in an empty doctor's lounge, while Rachel went for her procedure.

"Show it," Santana demanded, holding out her hand.

"What?" Mike asked too innocently.

"Pfft. You should know better than to try and hide that kind of bling from me. 'Sif I didn't notice that rock big enough for smurfette to live under."

He passed her the ring. It was a beautiful princess cut diamond, surrounded by five platinum points.

It was tacky and only someone completely taste impaired would wear it. Really, it was a perfect star shaped engagement ring for someone like Rachel.

"_Damn_. Don't tell me Berry finally found one of her own kind to mate with and create the next gen of loud-assed midgets."

"Satana—" Mike began half seriously.

"Sorry. They prefer _little people_, right?"

For a minute she studied the ring, thinking through everything she knew about Rachel. "Oh god, it's not..." She looked at Mike with disbelief and he merely nodded. She stuck her finger to her mouth in some 90s show of disgust. "_Mierda_! I never thought I'd be saying this," she began , "but Berry can do better."

Mike just leant back and closed his eyes.

"St. James isn't the one who…?"

Mike shrugged without looking up.

"_Hijo de puta!_"

"It's not what you think, San."

"Yeah? Then explain it, or I get the cops in here and find a way to _make_ Berry talk." She was deadly serious. She'd never found Rachel anything more than an obnoxious geek with too much talent and not enough sense, but if someone happened to ask her about Rachel Berry, she _might_ use the word "friend" in her description.

Mike spoke reluctantly, "They were arguing on stage. Jesse made us rehearse until five a.m. and when Rachel suggested we'd done enough, Jesse lost his shit. Threw some props around and started yelling at her, accusing her of shit I don't even understand. I think he used the word 'saboteur' though. Rachel screamed back twice as loud. Most of us were just trying to protect our ear drums, you know? So I didn't really see what happened, but Rachel was backing away from him and toppled off the edge." Mike shuddered, remembering that split second ear-piercing screech, a sharp thud and Rachel's face covered in blood. "Was fucked up, San."

Santana thought for a second. She shoved the ring back at Mike. Jesse was still a prick, no doubt about that.

Her pager went off and she and Mike made their way to the examination room.

"So? When will the swelling go down?" Rachel began the second Santana opened the door. Her nose had been packed by a kind nurse and she'd learnt how to adjust her voice around the bandages.

Santana had already looked at the scan and there was nothing surprising on them. "It's only a slight fracture. Nothing's been displaced. There's no need for surgery and there should be no disfigurement. Within two months it should be completely healed. Though there's—"

Rachel let out a dramatic gasp. "No! _No_! You don't understand! I have to be on stage within a fortnight. And even under make-up, the swelling—there's no way they'll let me perform looking like this!"

"Berry, stretch open your mouth, like you're projecting for the whole wide world to hear that congested wreck." Rachel opened her mouth. She barely managed to stretch it before her whole face flinched with the pain and her jaw snapped shut. "You won't be performing in a fortnight. Maybe in five weeks if you're really, really lucky."

Rachel's face crumpled. "Please, Santana, _please_. I know you don't like me, but there has to be a way…" Tears formed in her eyes, making the bloodshot one above her fracture look even worse.

"What? You think we save the good treatments for people we like and throw placebo at the untouchables?" It was said as gently as Santana had ever managed. "What's the problem? You guys get understudies, right? Surely you've stored enough light rays to live for three weeks without the spotlight?"

Rachel just shook her head, those silent tears resisting all laws of gravity.

The room remained quiet for a long while and Santana knew there were undercurrents she didn't understand.

"Come on," Santana sighed, "I'll hook you up with some pain killers, for old time sake. I'll even use the _real_ stuff," she joked.

Rachel calmed down with the help of some analgesics. She'd screamed about the damage opiates could do to the throat, citing idiotic cases about vocal cord paralysation after sedation. Mike made a simple threat about holding her down and Santana was absolutely speechless when Rachel complied immediately. Apparently that bizarre friendship wasn't all about Mike being terrified into submission by Rachel's crazy.

"Look there are things…_Jesse_ needs to watch for. It's unlikely, but there could be complications."

"Can't go home tonight," Rachel said firmly, eyes glazed.

Santana didn't have to ask why. "Then a friend…" She stopped at the look on Rachel's face. Of course Rachel would be short a friend. She looked to Mike.

"It's an hour's drive back to my place." Mike said unhappily. "Of course you can come, but—"

"But Rachel needs to get to bed some time before midday," Santana finished. There was a long, uncomfortable pause where she knew the words were going to bubble out of her mouth with no consent from her brain. Maybe it was her exhaustion, maybe it was being back within Rachel's gravitation pull: a dangerous, unstable place. "You can sleep over at mine. It's my weekend off, anyway."

In the cab home, Santana didn't quite regret her choice. Rachel was slumped against her shoulder. Her busted up face was bandaged, her nose finally blood-free, and her lips parted in soft awe. "I forgot to tell you!"

Santana waited. "Forgot to tell me what?"

Rachel blinked quickly. "You looked hot in your doctor's coat." It wasn't what she was going to say, but it seemed like a reasonable comment, anyway.

"Fuck yeah, I did," Santana agreed.

"You'd be great for this medical drama that's starting in the fall season."

Santana looked out the window as Rachel rambled about how well she'd do on the small screen. Of course Rachel thought it logical for Santana to become some shitty actress on daytime television pretending to be a doctor, rather than _actually_ being a doctor.

A twelve hour shift reviving junkies suddenly looked a lot more appealing.

}{

**E/N:** Sorry for any errors. I know nothing about fractures, hospitals, New York, or Glee. I've only skimmed half the eps, so please give me any notes for characterisations. It's the only way they'll improve.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed. Makes me crazy happy :).

}{

Santana had tried to ignore it, she really had: she'd buried her face in her bed, switched on her bedroom television, and counted filthy livestock till she ran out of numbers. In the end, she couldn't sleep through the breathy sobs coming from her lounge.

She wrapped her comforter around her body, grabbed a box of tissues, and made her way through the apartment. Her place was old, cramped, and always cold, but it was a ten minute commute to the hospital and it was _hers_. Sure, nine times out of ten she had to call her parents when her electricity bill came, but in Manhattan if you could afford a place to yourself without mortgaging your soul, it was a miracle.

She tripped to her futon, eyes unwilling to open after only two hours of sleep. She flipped on the lounge room lamp and without sympathy ripped the sheet from over Rachel's face.

Rachel had stopped crying when she heard Santana's footsteps, praying the other girl had just been heading to the bathroom.

She was beginning to realise God had stopped listening to her prayers a long time ago.

Rachel slowly pulled her hands from her mouth and tried to calm her breathing. "I'm very sorry, Santana. Did I disturb your rest?" Her voice was clogged with tears, but she really hoped to avoid any uncomfortable conversations.

"You're damn right, you did. Now what the fuck is your problem, Berry? Do you need a nightlight? Some more pain killers?" Santana glared from under wildly tussled locks. Rachel shook her head. Usually Santana's lack of sensitivity would make her feel even worse, but sleepy Santana wasn't all that scary. "Well?" Santana snapped when Rachel remained silent. "What is it?"

Rachel pulled the thin sheet tight to her chin. "I'm just—I couldn't really bury my face in my pillow and I just…" Her voice broke and it became infinitely harder to talk. "I just—"

Santana's eyes flew wide even as Rachel's screwed shut and her sobs started again. Santana stilled, unsure what to do with a Rachel Berry who cried into her brand new sheets like her little smurf heart was breaking. "Hey, shush. It's okay." She patted Rachel's shoulder awkwardly with the hand that wasn't still clinging to her comforter. "Your face doesn't look _that_ bad."

Rachel sobbed harder. Santana raised her eyes skywards, quietly beseeching the Madonna. When she realised Rachel was still crying on her foldout and no help was forthcoming, she sat, tossing a glare towards her roof. "Come on, Rach. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad," Santana said softly, one hand pushing Rachel's hair from her face. She brushed her fingers against the side of Rachel's face, trying to cool the unnatural heat.

She pulled a tissue from the box she'd bought and wiped Rachel's nose. Rachel seemed to quieten in shock. "What? I'm usually wrist deep in innards. You ain't got nothing I can't handle," she snorted. Rachel gave her an almost smile. "When your nose runs from crying it's just excess tears being filtered from your eyes," she added thoughtlessly.

The smaller girl looked on curiously. Santana knew stupid shit like that would interest her. "You can't blow your nose with that fracture, so stop the crying fit before you block up your sinuses." She grabbed another tissue and dried the rest of Rachel's tears, being especially gentle around her swollen eye.

Rachel nodded, calming herself to only the occasional hiccup. Santana moved till she was half laying, half sitting against the head of the futon. "I'm too exhausted to make it back to bed, so you may as well tell me what's wrong," she huffed generously.

There was a long pause and she didn't think she'd get a response. She spread her comforter over them both.

Rachel curled into a tighter ball. "It was my chance, Santana," she began, barely audible. "I don't know how many more I'm going to have."

"It's one play, Berry—"

Rachel cut her off, "No, Santana. It's the first lead I've had in _two_ years." Her words came out tight and unhappy, barely concealing the broken desperation. She couldn't look up, couldn't even meet Santana's eyes: she was so sick of seeing pity; sick of her fathers' false happiness as they told her, _next time, honey_; sick of playing the best friend to stars that were _not_ her betters.

The Latina swallowed. The air felt thick and she was reminded of why Rachel should be on stage. No one else could make her _feel_ with just a single sentence. "I remember—The Taming of the Shrew musical." It had been her first Broadway show, only a few months after she'd moved to the city. Puck had been in town and when he passed her the tickets she had thought he was just an idiot trying to get laid—an idiot because he'd bought expensive tickets when she'd probably have settled for dinner.

"You saw it?" Rachel asked cautiously, peeking up.

Santana nodded, thinking back. "You were good, Berry."

_Good_ didn't quite cover it. She didn't think she had words to describe how Rachel has sung in the closing scene. The way she'd looked at Jesse as if he was her entire world, rebuilt herself line by line for his love. It had made her stomach stir uneasily. She'd followed Puck backstage and watched from a distance as he twirled Rachel around, her delighted squeals making Jesse's face darken dangerously.

"Not good enough," Rachel said with an unsteady breath.

"Don't, Berry," she warned. "You know you're the fucking best at what you do, okay? Fuck, however annoying you were in school, no one ever disagreed with that, did they?" She didn't know why, but Rachel was clinging to her words with a hunger that made her uncomfortable. She'd done nothing but torture this girl for years; she really didn't want her trust. "You're only twenty-seven—"

"Twenty-four!" Rachel hissed determinedly.

Santana arched a brow, but smiled. "Yeah, alright, _twenty-four_. You'll have a lot more chances. A lot more leads" She played with a lock of Rachel's hair, twirling it around her finger. "You're _still_ annoying as fuck and I can't even disagree with that."

Rachel snuggled a tiny bit closer, all thoughts of tears disappeared. "Well, _you're_ still mean."

"You totally like me anyway. Everyone does," Santana replied smugly.

Rachel shut her eyes and refused to smile.

}{

By the time Santana woke, Rachel was on her floor doing stomach crunches.

With a disgusted look, she opened the heavy curtains that allowed her to sleep after night shifts, letting in the mid-afternoon sun. She probably wouldn't feel well-rested until Monday when her shift started.

Rachel tugged on her dress, replying to another text message. The Latina had handed Rachel an old sun dress so she could shower, the floral print reminding her of Rachel's penchant for finding her clothes with a time machine.

Santana tried not to think about the fact that Rachel Berry was sitting at her breakfast bar, not wearing any underwear.

"Let him hang."

"For the last time, I am not angry with him, Santana."

"Then why are you here?" She'd already told Rachel that they didn't have to let Jessie in. Really, what kind of boyfriend let some other guy take his girlfriend to the hospital, then wait twelve hours before "stopping by"? Apparently, _Jesse hates hospitals_. It's not like they were Santana's favourite place either, didn't stop her from hanging out there four to five times a week.

"I'm just …scared." Santana's eyes narrowed. "Not like that! I just can't stand the thought of disappointing him like this."

"Disappointing him? You broke your damn face 'cause of that asshole. He is not the one who should be disappointed."

"You don't understand."

Fuck no, she didn't, because she was, like, sane, but she decided to change the topic when Rachel's eyes went all sad again. "That's gross, by the way" Santana muttered, shoving a forkful of two-day-old chicken Pad Thai between her lips.

Rachel was becoming increasingly jittery every time her phone buzzed.

The smaller girl sipped at her dairy-free, sugar-free, gluten-free smoothie. She always carried a sachet in her handbag for such emergencies. "Actually, it's delicious. It contains twenty-three percent of my daily vitamin intake and is only seventeen calories."

"I don't think you have to worry about calories. You look pre-pubescent." Rachel had already told her several times in excess detail why it was necessary for someone in her industry to retain their figure. "Seriously, I had to fight every instinct not to treat you with lollipops and tellytubby Band-Aids." She eyed Rachel's braless form, chewing happily on her five hundred calorie meal. "Didn't you used to have, like, boobs?"

Rachel made a sound of indignation. "We can't all be _so_ surgically blessed!"

"Ooh, cut," Santana laughed, pushing a snow pea at Rachel's face. "Quick! Eat some meat before the rest of your sex organs shrivel." Rachel wrinkled her nose, but let Santana feed her a forkful. Santana waited a beat. "Careful there, Rolie Polie Olie, my chairs can only hold so much." She cackled at Rachel's expression. She couldn't believe it was so easy to distract Rachel from her worries.

Rachel went still at the knock on the door.

Santana carried her Thai with her, opening the door on Jesse's too bright grin. "Whaddya want?" She ate another bite of her meal, mainly to stop herself from smirking as Jesse's stage grin slid from his face.

Rachel pushed past her. "Hi, Jesse."

"Rachel," he breathed, stepping closer. "God…I didn't—" He gave her a quick hug.

Rachel attempted a smile. "It actually looks a lot worse than it feels."

"I was so worried. I think Mike finally just turned his phone off so he could get some sleep."

"I was fine. Santana is an excellent doctor." She pulled nervously at Santana's dress, knowing what was coming.

"How long will you…?" He gestured at her face in explanation.

She glanced sideways at Santana who was watching them with a bored expression. "I won't be able to work for a month."

Jesse blinked in confusion. His expression turned hard so quickly Santana worried. He turned, slumping against the wall. "They won't let you keep your role," he said quietly, voice dangerously cool.

"I know."

His breathing hitched as he pushed away from the wall. "Shit!" he screamed, kicking the door with enough force to make it shudder. Rachel froze in shock as he let out a string of poisonous expletives, boot crashing again and again against the door.

Santana stiffened, dropping her plate to a side table to keep her hands free. Her apartment was old but solid; she was pretty sure he'd break his foot before he broke her door, so she was happy to keep quiet.

"Jesse! Stop!" Rachel tugged at his arm, trying to turn him. "Stop it!"

He rested his forehead against the cool timber, Rachel's hysterical voice not quite reaching him. He finally let himself be turned. He shuddered as Rachel pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wanted this so bad. So bad," he whispered brokenly.

Santana knew she should look away. It was a painfully intimate moment. Rachel stood on the tips of her toes, her body pressed impossibly close to Jesse's. His arms were wrapped tightly around her back, face buried in the crook of her neck. Rachel's fingers slid into Jesse's curls as she whispered soft, sweet words. She _knew_ she should. The sickening scene actually made her chest tight. But she couldn't. Normal people didn't have dramatic breakdowns. Normal people didn't emit heartbreak and love and just pure emotion like they would die without it. It was hypnotising.

Eventually, the two pulled apart and Santana felt like she could breathe again.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. He touched a bandaged cut by her eye with the barest tip of his finger. "Swelling doesn't last all that long and the bruising isn't too bad."

Rachel bit her lip, looking at Santana with sedate hope. The Latina shook her head. "No. Her face might look fine in a couple of weeks, but it doesn't matter. If the fracture's not healed, than that amount of movement could displace the bones. You'd risk surgery, or infection."

Jesse's look of calculation made her seethe. She truly considered using her foot to make him an alto. _How dare he?_ Santana wrote the book, directed the movie, and published a blog about _selfish_, but to even consider risking Rachel's health for a stage performance was just borderline psychotic.

As if reading her expression, Jesse demurred. "I'm sorry. I' m stupid for asking." Rachel only nodded, her disappointment obvious. "I was going to take the day off, but it just seemed so—"

"No, no, it's fine. _I'm _fine. And Becky needs all the rehearsal she can get, if she's going to take the lead." Rachel gave a winning smile.

Jesse left with a last long look at Santana. "Thanks for everything, _San_." It was said perfectly: no snideness, no falseness, and Santana could still feel his distaste.

Alone again, the girls faced each other and Rachel started making rambling excuses for Jesse's behaviour. Santana let the other girl talk herself dry, not bothering to listen let alone reply.

"Finish your smoothie and I'll find you some new bandages."

Uneasiness had settled throughout Santana's body. There was something very wrong with Rachel and Jesse, and she didn't know if she could ignore it, no matter how much she wanted to.

}{


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Thanks for reviewing the last chapter. You guys are awesome. I know these chapters are a little dull, but things will pick up once I flesh out the world. Scouts honour. (And I totally made it through two months of scouts meetings before losing my mind.)

}{

She opened her door and really couldn't stop the slow smile that stretched across her face. "The fuck are you doing here?"

Puck matched her grin, stepping across her threshold. He lifted her from her feet in a rib-cracking hug. "Looking good, doc."

"Yeah, well, you look like a fucking tool. You here to tell me 'bout the good word of our Lord and Saviour, or some shit?" She gave his suit and perfectly cropped hair the scornful look it deserved.

Puck's smile didn't dim. "See, how can I stay away when you treat me so good?"

Santana trailed him as he tossed his overnight bag carelessly into her bedroom and proceeded to throw himself onto her couch, flicking the television on like he had an invite. "And to repeat, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I called," he grunted, flipping unhappily through the channels till he found ESPN.

"Did not!" Santana smacked his legs till he grudgingly made enough room for her.

"I was gonna," he amended. "Finally got some time off and I knew you'd be missing me."

That didn't even deserve a roll of her eyes. "You still sell your pussy-weak mix drinks?" Santana liked to make fun of him, but she was actually pretty impressed that he'd become some big-shot brand representative and flew all around the world. Of all the old crew, he probably had the most exciting life. Except, maybe, Brittany who danced around the world and had never looked back.

"As long as they keep paying me the big bucks. You still get to play with chicks' boobs?" For a moment he managed to tear himself away from the television.

"Breast exams aren't that exciting." It felt like the millionth time she'd told him.

Puck just shook his head and turned back to the ball game. "You've changed, Lopez."

"Oh! Oh, I've changed? Don't think I don't know what you're doing here, Puckerman." She poked his ribs with an unimaginably bony finger.

Puck frowned, rubbing at his side. "Told ya'. Time off. Wanted to get a physical and you're the only one who gives 'em with a happy ending."

She continued unfazed, having already heard every one of his "playing doctor" jokes, "So it's just a coincidence that your holidays coincide with the opening of a certain play?"

His eyes lit, caught red-handed with cookies. "You wouldn't understand. Jews gotta stick together." He didn't even try to sound serious.

She snorted. "Yeah, why don't you ever visit your _mamá_, then?"

"Did. Stopped over on my way here."

Santana hesitated, not really sure if she wanted to know. "How is Lima?" she asked quietly.

"Like livin' in a fourth dimension where time doesn't exist. I swear a sign I stole in seventh is still missing. Mercedes opened another salon. Her and Sam are still going good." He paused. "Finn and Quinn got another on the way."

"Shit, can the world afford their passel of pretty idiots to grow?"

Puck shrugged, smiling a little. "They got some cute kids."

"I said they were pretty! Still dumber than dirt, though." Santana knew it was still a touchy subject. Quinn and Puck had dated for three years after high school before she left him for Finn. It was a shitty move, but Puck had shrugged and only said karma was a bitch. Santana was pretty sure Quinn was the bitch, but if Puck wanted to play big-man about his heart, then whatever, not her business.

"You know Berry's not singing anymore?" she asked experimentally. If Rachel was even thinking about still performing, she was going to have to put the beat down on someone.

Puck went quiet. "Yeah she called. She talked about your 'exceeding brilliance' and 'skill beyond comparison'. Apologized like crazy when she found out I'd already got time off."

"So why don't you stay with Berry, if you've got such a hard-on for show tunes?"

Puck scoffed. "Are you joking? Jesse wouldn't give me ice in the arctic. He'd kill me before he let me stay with them. I know Rachel used to fight with him so I could, but their limit for drama would blow the minds of us mere mortals. Me and Jesse would fight, Rachel would end up crying, and I'd end up in a hotel anyway." He shook his head. "He doesn't trust me around Rachel."

Santana laughed. It was the first smart thing she'd heard about him. "Should he?"

"Fuck no! But he doesn't trust _anyone_ with her. And he doesn't trust her."

Santana nodded in understanding. "So what are you going to do here?"

He shot her a heavy-lidded glance "Get laid." Santana rolled her eyes. Even for Puck that was unsubtle. "Figured I could still come and see Chang's choreography and check out what shit St. Fucktard pulled this time."

"As much as I'd like the excuse to kick his ass, I'm pretty sure it was an accident."

"I bet. Accidents happen around St. James."

Santana cocked her head. "Meaning?"

Puck glanced at her. "You really have been out of Berry's loop of crazy." Santana just shrugged. It was true enough, but now that she was in it once again, it really felt like she'd never left. "Why do you think Rachel is still playing second string in B-grade plays?"

"It's a competitive industry." Everyone knew that.

"Not that competitive. Ain't nothing more competitive than Rachel when she wants something." He met her eyes evenly, the most serious she'd seen him all night.

"I'm not getting it."

"No one will hire her. After college, _hell_, during college, people in the right circles knew how good they were. Everyone thought Rachel and Jesse would hit stardom so fast they'd burn out by twenty-five. Alone Rachel was, _is_, something special. With Jesse she's spectacular." Puck frowned, lost in some thought of his own.

Santana really hated hearing how good Rachel and Jesse were together. "What happened?"

"Jesse. The minute they left college they were getting good roles, but Jesse got a reputation for being difficult to work with. I didn't really get it. I mean, working with Rachel would make my ears bleed, but St. James is something else. He got in arguments with cast members. A fistfight with a director. He threw a chair at a guy 'cause he missed an E flat. There are rumours too; that he's sabotaged people to get their roles. I don't know. All I know is that he's blacklisted from every decent production and as long as Rachel performs with him, she is too," Puck finished solemnly.

"Why does she?" Santana could almost understand why Rachel was engaged to him. Smurfette had God-awful taste and a penchant for falling in love with the idea of people, but that didn't mean they had to work together.

Puck gave a Gallic shrug, already turning back to his game. "Good luck figuring out why Rachel Berry does anything. But, if you want my advice, don't ask her, not if you like your face as is."

}{

"Santana, I wasn't expecting your expertise today!" Rachel chirped when Santana appeared in her examination room.

Santana had had to pull some serious strings, but like hell would she be admitting that. "That's Dr. Lopez to you."

Rachel's face fell. "It was a joke, Berry. Jeez, you are, legit, more uptight than Thatcher getting a lap dance."

Rachel smiled cautiously before accepting Santana's words as truth. "I hope you know that metaphor is completely nonsensical, _Dr. Lopez_."

"Yep, now get up on the examination table. If you can."

"Ha. Ha." Rachel made sure to walk her straightest, revelling in the one inch advantage she had over Santana in her four inch heels.

Santana was vaguely annoyed that Rachel had chosen today to graduate from The Shire, but Rachel's legs under her pencil skirt more than made up for it.

As she hopped onto the table, Santana froze, eyes widening and her hands flew up in caution.

"What? What is it!" Rachel cried.

Santana shrugged, pulling out a notepad nonchalantly. "Just making sure the table held."

"That's awful, Santana," Rachel pouted.

"You're an idiot. Eat a fucking sandwich, 'cause I got news, If they don't hire you at one-oh-five, they ain't going to be hiring you at ninety-five," she replied bluntly. Rachel crossed her arms and remained stoic for all of five seconds.

Except for the puffiness around the eye, Santana couldn't see any visible signs of the break. All those years of stage make-up must have finally paid off. She listed off diagnostic questions before moving onto the physical.

Rachel was still rattling on about some lame soapie. "My friend, Greta, is very close with the casting director and—"

"Berry, enough!" Feeling facial bones for irregularities was not meant to be done when they were moving a mile a minute. "You're not going to Pied Piper me out of a job like you did Mike."

Rachel sucked in a sharp breath, hands flying to her mouth. "I did no such thing!"

"Sure, the Asian with a finance degree is dancing for the prestige." Everyone knew how Rachel had plied her insanity all over Mike at UCLA till the poor boy was just another starving actor with disappointed parents.

"That's ridiculous. How could _Mike_ be stuck behind a desk, playing with numbers all day?" She made a pained sound. "People with Mike's talent _need_ to be on stage. For talent like that to go unnoticed would be sacrilegious!" Rachel's eyes burnt with a ferocity that would cower anything in its path.

Santana just smirked, tracing her fingers along Rachel's jaw. "So why exactly should _I_ be joining the cast of Murphy's whatever?"

Rachel blinked slowly, the answer seeming obvious. "Because you are just _that_ beautiful. The world should appreciate that. They should at least be given the chance."

Santana's hands stilled. It's not as if she didn't know she was hot. Everyone knew it. But what Rachel had said, the _way_ she had said, it made her mind go blank, and her fingers burn where they rested against Rachel's face. She wasn't even thinking when she leant down and touched Rachel's lips to her own.

It shouldn't have meant anything; it was barely even a kiss. But without looking she felt Rachel's body straining towards her own, as if the girl was fighting every molecule not to press their bodies together. Santana's body couldn't even think that far ahead. She just wanted to open her mouth and truly taste the girl in front of her, slip their tongues together just to see what it would feel like, capture her bottom lip to see what Rachel's moan sounded like, force their lips together just to take the edge off the heat travelling through her body.

In the end, she pulled back and smiled toothily, like her mind could still function and her whole body wasn't flushed and tingling.

Rachel gripped onto the exam table like her life depended on it, and it just might, because she's not sure what Santana would have done if she launched herself at her like some touch-starved spider monkey. She pulled out an indignant show face. "Honestly, Santana, that was incredibly inappropriate. I hope your bedside manner is usually less tactile when you're at work."

Santana would have been more offended if she couldn't feel the way Rachel's skin trembled under her fingertips. "I'm working on it." Rachel nodded, finding that answer sufficient. She would remind herself that Santana had boundary issues and never think of this again.

When they were nearly done, Santana casually mentioned that Puck had turned up on her doorstep. She didn't miss the way Rachel's eyes lit. She'd really have to figure out what was with those two, because Santana Lopez did not play second choice to anyone, especially not to her favourite fuck buddy.

The offer came out of nowhere. She and Puck hadn't even made plans, but she just had the urge to keep Rachel close, at least for one more night. "Come out with us. We might even get you a lap dance, Thatcher."

"Was that an offer?"

Santana just chuckled.

Rachel bit her lip before slowly sucking it into her mouth when she noticed the unfamiliar taste. She really shouldn't. There was no way Jessie would say yes. "…I'd have to be home early."

Santana's smile was small and victorious. Getting her own way was a brilliant thing. "I wouldn't have it any other way," she lied with little talent.

}{


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: I tend to slip into present tense when I get carried away. Tense inconsistencies haunted me at uni too, so let me know if you catch any. Or any annoying errors in general. Cookies are a definite possibility.

This probably borders on an M. In the next chapter or two I'll up the rating.

}{

Santana spent the last three hours of her shift on auto-drive, her mind whirring uncontrollably.

It's not like she didn't know what was happening; she'd been playing this game since her mother bought her first bra.

She wanted Rachel. She _wanted_ Rachel Berry. She wanted all up in Rachel Berry's crazy-ass, most likely, star-spangled panties. And that was wrong on so many levels.

It's not like she hated the girl or anything. Except for the eager puppy dog eyes and overbearing personality, Rachel was pretty cool. Okay, Rachel Berry would _never_ be cool, but Santana was pretty sure they might be friends, despite her obvious epic uncoolness.

_And she thinks you're beautiful_, her mind chimed in with annoying regularity.

Thing was, Santana didn't do that stuff anymore.

She didn't do people in committed relationships. She didn't do girls with undecided stamped all over their sexuality. And she sure as hell didn't do girls with questionable sanity, bitch-ass boyfriends, and a history of Alex Forrest level clinginess.

All that drama messed with her complexion.

Yet she'd still invited Rachel out on some imaginary bar crawl for no reason. No reason other than the fact that she had it on good authority (or whatever Puck qualified as) that Rachel was a handsy drunk.

By the time her clinic rounds had finished she still hadn't figured anything out, but she may or may not have euthanized a patient or two.

When Rachel met them in the bar, Puck gave little sign that he saw her, lips barely twitching into a smirk.

It was nothing like the exaggerated greeting he had given her.

Santana learnt why when Rachel's shriek hit a high F, disturbing the entire venue and every dog in a three mile radius. Her lips parted in shock when Rachel took an honest-to-God running leap into Puck's arms. Puck did as little as possible to accommodate her while still hugging her back; it was damn lucky too, because that was some of the gayest shit she'd ever witnessed. And she regularly had sex with girls.

Seriously, who does that?

How does Puck look himself in the mirror?

"How the hell did you get out?" Puck asked, letting Rachel slide a half foot back to the ground.

Rachel's spine straightened almost imperceptibly. "Through a doorway, Noah," she said slowly in a tone reserved for speaking to slow children.

He grimaced in disbelief. "You sure there was no shimmying down a fire escape? 'Cause there's no way St. Jerkoff let you out for a hard night's partying with me."

It was less than a week to opening night and there was no way Jesse would be home before two a.m., but that information was not integral to this conversation. "I am a grown woman, Noah Puckerman, and I do not need to _sneak_ anywhere."

"More like you couldn't get your leg over the window sill in that dress."

Rachel ignored that, turning to greet Santana.

Santana knew this was one of her worst ideas in the first real club they arrived at, not the semi-classy bars they started the night with.

After Puck deserted them for some perky blonde by the bar, Rachel leaned close to be heard over the music. "I really don't go out a lot. I didn't know what the appropriate attire was and I think I may have overcompensated by wearing something far too revealing," she whispered with only a shred of self-consciousness.

If Santana wasn't too busy watching Rachel's cleavage, she'd be inclined to agree.

Rachel's eyes roamed restlessly, gleaming with excitement. There was an ice-bar. _A bar made out of real ice_. Two gorgeous hip-hop dancers moved recklessly on a platform too tiny for words; it made her nervous just watching. The exotic looking DJ had a huge and lumbering appearance, but every now and then, when he got carried away with the crowd, he danced with fluid grace and pulled off moves that could put Mike to shame. The crowd was an odd melee. Some could dance, some couldn't even find the beat, some were dressed casually, and some painfully fashionable. They all looked happy.

Puck returned—obviously the blonde had found greener pastures—with another round of shots.

They'd made her order her first shots by herself, both finding something incredibly amusing about the way she tried to whisper "cocksucking cowboy" to the bartender. But Puck had relearnt his manners, mussing her hair with a fond hand. "Shit Berry, just sit down already. You look like you're going to pop an aneurysm."

"Santana, tell him that's not even remotely possible!" Rachel demanded, her hands curling into fists.

"How the fuck should I know? They didn't let us dissect Oompa Loompas at med school."

Santana couldn't quite reconcile the sharp slap to her thigh with Rachel's pleased smile.

Puck's eyes narrowed thoughtfully when Santana simply shot the too-sweet drink without a word.

He gestured to the dance floor, sick of shouting over the music. Rachel held up her still full glass and Santana shook her head minutely.

Rachel took small sips of her drink, enjoying the taste too much to be rid of it in one gulp.

She tugged at Santana's hand, leading them onto a nearby balcony. She really hadn't been out in a very long time. There was the occasional dinner with fellow cast members, but nothing like this. She enjoyed the energy, but all those bodies in such a tight space were rather oppressive.

They leaned back against the rail, standing close to block out the cold. Both their eyes found Puck through the glass as he captured his newest flaxen-haired victim around the waist. They made some obscene movements that might have been dancing. Rachel really couldn't see how public indecency laws had escaped this place.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

Santana watched with mild interest as the girl fixed her hands around Puck's neck. "Nope." She knew Puck wouldn't stray too far. He'd learnt his lesson the hard way after a night spent curled up in the hallway outside her apartment door.

Rachel's head lolled onto Santana's shoulder. "I don't think I could do that."

"What?" Santana was all kinds of distracted as Rachel's hugged their bodies even closer.

"Sleep with someone who I knew…" she stopped herself, having learnt a little about how to not make people hate her since high school.

"Just wanted something to fuck?"

"Wanted more," Rachel corrected.

Santana stiffened. Those words sounded painfully familiar.

_It was __**their**__ room. Santana might have had most of her clothes in a room down the hall, but from the minute they'd got to the sorority, this had been where they slept, in a bed overflowing with mismatched cushions and haggard looking stuffed animals._

_When Santana didn't spend the night, Brittany had no doubts as to her whereabouts. _

_It wasn't until the third or fourth time she'd stumbled in before lunch when Brittany had blinked those sky-blue orbs at her oh so sadly. _

"_No more, San." _

_All the things she'd kept here had been packed into two brightly marked boxes: __**Inside**__ and __**Outside**__. Brittany had her own way of labelling things that made some kind of insane logic._

_She'd argued and screamed, because this could not be over. Not them. Not Santana and Brittany. They were it and always and ustwoforever. "You didn't even tell me to stop! I didn't __**know. **__You can't punish me for something I didn't even know!__**"**_

_The blonde's lips curled downwards. "I would never punish you. I couldn't hurt you on purpose." She shook Santana's pleading hand from hers. "You want something more, San. I don't know what it is and I think you don't tell me because you know I can't give it to you." _

_Brittany kindly offered to help carry her boxes down the hall._

_In response Santana kicked them ferociously till Brittany's floor was littered with bath salts and cosmetic stained clothing. "I love you," she whispered dazedly, all of her energy gone. _

_Brittany just watched as a sickly green body wash soaked through her carpet. "You too, San, but it really hurts sometimes." _

Santana shook off the cobwebs of the past. Brittany was gone, had been gone for a long time, and was never coming back; she made a valiant effort to never think of the blonde.

"You planning on screwing Puck?" she asked viciously.

Rachel blanched, pulling away and wrapping her arms around her body. She remembered that tone far too well. "No," she said softly.

"Then it's not like it's any of your business," Santana hissed. She glared for almost a whole second before feeling guilty.

She didn't like the way Rachel looked even smaller, becoming as unobtrusive as she possibly could. Too many times she'd walked through the halls of McKinley and watched people cower in her wake.

She was too old and too awesome to be projecting her insecurities all over her friends.

She couldn't bring herself to say those two appropriate words (she hadn't grown _that_ much), but she wrapped her hand around Rachel's. Her eyes were fixed on their hands, almost surprised when the tiny, slightly paler hand didn't pull away. "Sometimes I wish me and Puck would just fall in love. But whatever. It doesn't work just because it would be easier." She tested the weight of their hands, ran her other fingers over the fine skin of Rachel's wrist, watching goose bumps appear. "Puck and I are never going to be _it_ for each other, so why bother pretending? Still, sometimes, having each other is better than nothing," she finished faintly.

Her body was overly conscious of the way Rachel had inched closer. Those deep brown eyes were sparkling with that crazy intensity that indicated she was warping reality into some sickeningly romantic production.

That look focused towards Jesse or Finn usually sent her gag reflex into overdrive.

Now she just felt needy.

More than anything, she didn't want Rachel to turn that look away from her, towards someone else. Towards someone else _far less deserving_.

Rachel snaked her arms around Santana's neck, pressing her face into the taller girl's throat. She knew Santana would laugh at her, if not attack her for the wetness that flooded her eyes, but Santana had just sounded so alone. Not that she'd ever say that out loud; she rather enjoyed breathing.

Rachel understood loneliness.

She could feel Santana's pulse beat frantically beneath her lips. The spicy perfume under her nose and the hands travelling cautiously towards her hips made heat spread through her body.

She pushed Santana away, laughing to cover her discomfort, hoping Santana couldn't see her flush in the dim light.

She grabbed Santana's hand and forced the taller girl to twirl beneath her arm, bumping their hips together to finish the move. "Let's find Puck. Show 'em how it's done." She ignored the low, husky tone in her voice and hoped Santana would too.

}{

Puck laughed when Santana shoved him roughly against the wall outside her apartment.

His back hadn't even hit the wall before Santana sealed their lips together with a small growl. She ripped his shirt over his head and threw it away without looking. He used the split second their bodies weren't melded together to manoeuvre them both into Santana's apartment. He really couldn't afford another arrest for public nudity.

She threw off her heels, eyes still tracking Puck's form as he retreated to the bedroom. Santana pushed him into her unmade sheets, straddling his thighs as she took off her top.

He wasn't laughing anymore.

Puck cupped her breasts with uncharacteristic gentleness, thumbs sliding across her nipples. Her eyes were forced closed as the ache between her thighs worsened.

She could remember the way Rachel's arm brushed the side of her breast as she reached for her drink. The way it tingled, the way her body had felt so alert.

She let her tongue slip over Puck's, trying to lose herself in the taste of whiskey and something all _Puck_. The familiarity of his fingers digging into her ass, the rough regrowth against her lips: it should have been enough.

Instead, all she could think about was Rachel's hand on her thigh in the taxi and how easy it would have been to slip her hand beneath that non-existent dress.

She dragged Puck's hand to her stomach; he caught on quick, unzipping her jeans and pushing her panties to the side. "_Shit_," he breathed. His calloused fingers felt as good as they always did, rough and forceful, and not even close to what she wanted.

She made an effort to keep her head in the game, to focus on the movements of Puck's hips and not the image of Rachel's head buried between her thighs.

She covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting to come with Rachel's name on her lips.

After, when Puck was snoring lightly, the ache between her legs was gone, but the sick heat in her stomach only felt worse.

}{

Rachel hummed on the elevator ride. She may have spun once or twice while walking towards the door of her apartment.

She flipped on the switch by the door, blinking frantically to adjust to the light.

Her eyes met Jesse's across the room and she froze, guilt and the barest inkling of fear making it impossible to move.

}{


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: So, I'm totally against character bashing, but I'm being totally unfair to Jessie just for the sake of my plot. Here's a gorgeous vid by procastination101 about the adorableness of Jon and Lea to even things out. www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=faF9t-NlVzE

}{

Santana woke late into the morning.

Her head felt evil.

She was getting too old for this shit.

She grabbed the sport's drink by her bed and drank half a bottle before her stomach could be alarmed by its sickening fluorescent colour.

Puck was collecting things from her floor.

"What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously, managing to pull herself into a sitting position.

He grinned up at her, eyes never making it past her bare breasts. "I'm out."

She raised her brow. "I thought you were staying for a while?"

"I am," he clarified, throwing the last of his clothes into his bag. He zipped it closed and stood. "Just not here."

She tilted her head in confusion, trying to remember if they'd had some drunken fight. She was pretty sure they'd banged like rockstars then fell asleep like babies. "Why?" she asked finally.

"I'm going to hang out at Mike's. See what he's got on his Playstation."

She checked under her nails absently. Something was going on, but she didn't want to sound like some desperate girlfriend.

"Christ, you don't even know, do you?" Puck snickered, throwing his bag on the bed and sitting beside it.

She narrowed her eyes, hating to play catch up.

His grin got even sharper. "Ooh, _Raaachel_. What, that doesn't sound familiar?" She aimed a kick at his thigh, barely glancing it.

"Fucking liar! I said no such thing!" Her mind was ringing in distress, not nearly as certain as she sounded.

He laughed again. "Yeah, but you were totally thinking it. I got a gift for sex vibes, and you and Berry were like five seconds away from starring in my very own Bang Brother's production."

"You've lost it." Santana went back to playing with her nails. Any expression on her face at this point in time would be embarrassing, and she was pretty sure Puck would never let her live it down.

"Nah uh." He crawled up the bed, sinking his fingers into the tender spots of her sides, making her squirm and giggle. "You got the _matzo fever_, the _taste for Berry-crunch_, the _Streisand sweats_, the—"

Santana managed to buck him off, slapping at his oversized head. It only made him laugh harder.

"Shut it! Tell a soul and I'll cut it off while you sleep." Santana didn't even want to hear it herself.

Puck laid on his back, looking unduly pleased with himself. He'd heard that threat so much, it had lost all meaning.

She buried her face in her hands. Having some school-girl crush on someone you called your friend was never okay. It never got any easier.

"Look, I don't mind being your fuck buddy, or whatever, but I'm not gonna sleep with you while you pretend that I'm some five-foot-nothin' Streisand-wannabe. Not my kink." Puck patted her shoulder in some manly show of support. "And I'm pretty attached to my manhood, you know."

She shrugged off his hand. "Ugh. What am I going to do?"

"Fuck, San. Didn't you used to have game? You bang Berry and have your lady-wedding, or whatever. And leave St. James jerking off to his musicals," he added, pleased with the whole concept. He gave his most salacious wink, picking up his bag.

"You're leaving already?" she growled. She didn't want to be left here by herself, mentally seducing Rachel Berry. She'd go insane.

"Fuck yeah. I'm outta here before you start dressing me in knee socks and cardigans, bitch."

"Fine! Go!"

She evaded his goodbye kiss, merely making him laugh. "You can call me when you and Berry are ready to start experimenting."

She flipped him off, but he was already out the door.

}{

Before her afternoon shift started, she called Rachel twice. The chick couldn't handle her drink, and that's no secret.

She called once more during her first break, and spent her second checking her phone repeatedly.

She's never known Rachel not to pick up by the second ring.

She called in a favour and walked out of the hospital two hours early.

It was pathetic, but she couldn't keep her mind on her work, not until she heard Rachel's voice.

}{

_Earlier_

Jesse sat at the head of the dining table; Rachel couldn't begin to decipher the emotions on his face.

She laughed to cover her surprise. "I thought you'd be at rehearsal."

Jesse shrugged. "I thought you'd be at home."

She walked cautiously closer, giving her best show smile. "I spent the night with Santana," she explained.

"Just Santana?" he asked, moving closer with that beautiful grace.

"Girls' night," she finished, meticulously placing her bag on its hangar by the door. She couldn't hold his eyes, the intensity in his gaze made her heart beat unsteadily.

He touched her cheek, slowly turning her towards him. He seemed to search her face.

He let her go, jaw tightening imperceptibly. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm doing no such thing! I spent the night with Santana and—"

"And Puck!" He slammed his hand into the wall beside her face, trapping her. Rachel couldn't help the way her eyes flinched shut. "What is it with him, anyway? He was nothing but the school slut and would have been destined for some janitorial occupation and a town full of bastards if you hadn't worked so hard to get him into college."

"Stop it, Jesse." She slipped under his arm and walked to the kitchen. "You're being unnecessarily cruel. Noah worked hard for everything he's got." She poured a glass of water. Her head was foggy and her ears still rang from the music in the last club.

He followed her, slumping against the island behind her like some predator in wait. "I just want to know what it is about him that you just can't give up? We've been together for _six_ years. You're going to be my wife, and you still won't stop seeing him."

Unconsciously, her fingers flew to her ring. She turned on him, never one to back down. "Yes, because we're _friends_. And I really don't like what you're implying, Jesse," she warned.

His lip curled. "I don't really have to imply a thing when my fiancée is sneaking out at night like some fifteen-year-old tramp to see her loser ex."

"You're being disgusting." Tears flooded her eyes; she couldn't stand the way he looked at her. "I hate it when you get like this," she murmured, twisting the ring on her finger.

His face closed down into something terrifying and Rachel took a step back before she could stop herself. "I'm disgusting?" He stalked closer. "I'm not the one out there doing god-knows-what and coming back here to spread your filth."

"You're being deliberately mean," she shook her head, "And I'm not going to talk to you like this." She lifted her head in preparation for a full storm out, but before she could leave he latched onto her wrist with a death grip. "Did you fuck him? Don't I at least deserve to know that?" he asked snidely.

"Get off me," Rachel hissed. They'd always gotten in fights that bordered on horrific, but she drew the line at letting someone lay fingers on her in anger. She snatched her wrist from his hand and rubbed at it, eyeing him warily. "What is your problem?"

"_Him_! Noah-_fucking_-nobody, who could make a million dollars and still be nothing more than a Lima loser. And it doesn't matter what kind of trash he is, you still pick him over me!"

Rachel's mouth fell open. "For the last time, Noah and I are _friends_. Just friends."

"Don't be such a little idiot!" Jesse gave her shoulders a small shake. "What do you think you could possibly have in common with him?"

Rachel's eyesight swam. She had to take a few deep breaths, just to keep her stomach down. The alcohol was catching up with her and the shaking wasn't helping. "We had _glee_." She said it like it meant something huge and obvious. Because it did. To her, at least.

Glee _was_ her. For so long it had been everything that defined her. And Puck was a part of New Directions—a part of her.

Jesse grabbed her by her arm and dragged her down the hall, even as she struggled against him. "Jesse!" As suddenly as he'd grabbed her, he let her go. Rachel was left trying to keep her nausea at bay, wobbling on the threshold of their study. She blinked away tears of sickness and exhaustion.

There was nothing but moonlight and the bright light from the hallway illuminating the room. Jesse was just a dark shadow.

Distantly, she tried to figure out why he was searching their trophy case. Nothing but brilliant gold and marble trophies lined its shelves.

A terrifying thought was nibbling at her mind.

"Jesse? What are you doing?" She made her voice as careful as possible.

"Show choir was a lifetime ago, Rachel," he bit out. "You need to get over it." He found the perfect gold note and gripped it by one of its beautiful red pillars. It was a perfect miniature of the one that sat in McKinley's halls. New Direction's National's trophy.

There was nothing in their apartment that meant more to her.

Jesse fiddled with the locks on their window.

"Don't you dare!" She flew to his side, beating at his arm. "Give it—" She stood on the tips of her toes, one arm stretching as far as humanly possible. Jesse barely had to lift his arm to keep it out of her reach. She was rarely so aware of her small stature. "Please, please, _please_!" She latched onto his sleeve, nails biting into his skin as she tried to swing it away from the window.

He shrugged her off, shoving her back without even looking.

The force sent her sprawling to the floor, her head cracking into the timber shelf with enough force that her jaw slammed shut and for a split second her vision went white. The pain came roaring in a moment later. Her hands went to her head as if she was trying to keep it from splitting.

When Jesse turned around his hands were empty. From the eighteenth floor she hadn't even heard it hit the pavement.

Rachel sobbed brokenly.

She couldn't be sure if it was the pain, the fight, or the trophy she'd spent three years of her life working for.

She couldn't see clearly, but she could feel Jesse's hands travelling over her face around to the painful part of her head. "You're okay, baby. It's just a bit of an egg."

He picked her up easily. The world spun violently around her.

He tucked her into their bed gently, placing tender kisses over her cheeks. "Don't cry, baby. It was just a trophy. It's silly to make yourself sick over something like that."

He sounded so reasonable. Of course she knew how stupid it was to be crying over some high school trophy. She was being ridiculous.

She just couldn't seem to stop.

Jesse sighed, crawling in beside her.

He was too close. She couldn't breathe and it was too hot.

She barely made it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of her stomach.

}{


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Gaah. You guys are so crazy awesome with the reviews. I changed the rating to M, because badly written smut is my calling. You have been warned.

And Have a happy chocolate day, people. Don't let your friends trick you into camping! Outside is where they keep the creepy stuff.

}{

Rachel and Jesse's doorman let her in with a polite nod. She always expected doormen to be snobbish, instead they were usually the nicest people in this city.

After leaving the hospital she realised her big, dramatic exit from work wasn't well thought out.

She didn't even have a clue where Rachel lived.

Luckily she had Mike's number. He told her everything she needed to know and required very little explanation. He didn't ask why she didn't just call Jesse, or why her voice was high and unhappy, just gave her directions and instructions to call him if there was anything else.

She gave a perfunctory knock and was unsurprised when there was no response.

She glanced around the wide hallway, checking for witnesses.

She jumped, one hand swiping over as much of the doorframe as she could manage. The tiny key flew to the ground and Santana brushed herself off before picking it up.

She'd never seen something so stupid before.

Seriously, those guys on _World's Dumbest_ could have figured that one out, and if Santana had trouble reaching the spare key, how was Rachel supposed to?

She called out Rachel's name as she entered the apartment. "Hello!"

The apartment was not what she was expecting from two struggling actors. By all rights Jesse and Rachel should be living out of their car or under a bridge or something, but their apartment was massive. Dark tiles lined the floor and all the furniture was white and minimalist. She was mildly worried she had the wrong place; nothing in here looked like Rachel.

Everything looked empty, so she headed for the one closed door. She knocked again.

She let out a sigh of relief.

Rachel was slumbering peacefully, tucked tightly into her oversized bed. The hum of her air conditioner had probably muffled the ringing and knocking.

"Berry?" Santana stepped closer. She was feeling annoyed with herself for getting worked up over nothing, not too much—checking up on friends was never a waste of time. She wouldn't have pegged Rachel as an afternoon napper. Or a heavy sleeper.

She shook Rachel's shoulder lightly. There was no response.

"Rachel!" she snapped, shaking her harder this time.

Far too slowly for Santana's liking, Rachel drifted awake. Her eyes blinked sluggishly and she made a small sound of protest.

She checked her pulse and her temperature, switching the bedside lamp on to see better.

"San?" Rachel asked, disorientated. Santana was peering into her eyes closely and her hands seemed to be everywhere.

"How do you feel?"

It took Rachel a while to think of the answer. "Hungover?"

Sloe eyes narrowed. Rachel hadn't drunk that much (that she knew of). "Can you sit up for me?"

Rachel just frowned in confusion, but helped as Santana slipped one hand behind her back and forced her to sit.

Santana's breath left her body in a hiss. "Ah, shit, Rachel! What did you do?"

Santana could spot dried blood from a mile and Rachel's pillow had been soaked with it. Rachel's fingers went to her head in surprise. She could feel the sticky substance congealed in her hair, along with the throbbing pain in her head.

Santana pushed her hands gently out of the way. She moved the lamp closer and sorted through Rachel hair. There was a small gash, and swelling that indicated mild trauma. "Let's get to the bathroom."

Rachel nodded. She seemed to remember spending a lot of the night in her en suite anyway. She felt a little unsteady, but made it easily enough to shower.

Santana wrapped a towel around the smaller girl's shoulders to stop her slip from getting wet or cold. "Did you hit your head?"

"Fell" Rachel responded simply.

Santana helped Rachel lower her head under the cool shower without getting the rest of her wet. She let the water run for a while before pulling her out. The wound looked clean. She searched the bathroom cupboards for gauze and made Rachel hold it to her head while she patter her hair dry softly.

She held Rachel's hand and led her back to the bed like she would a small child.

"Do you remember what happened, Rachel?" She took a seat on the bed, tossing the stained pillow to the floor. It was done for.

"I fell and hit my head on the bookcase. I didn't think I hit it that hard."

"Head wounds are like that," she said absently. She searched Rachel's face for a long minute. Her colour was weak, making dark circles below her eyes stand out. Even her cheek looked more swollen again. She had obvious signs of a concussion. "Did you and Jesse fight?"

"Santana—"

"Answer the question, Berry."

Rachel made an unhappy sound, eyes clamping shut. "We had a disagreement. "

"You're coming to my place."

Rachel wormed out of her grip. "I most certainly am not. I know what you're thinking and it's just not true. Jesse would never hurt me. _Never_. And I know that's some terribly cliché line from a Hallmark movie where the lead is most certainly in denial about suffering some brutal form of abuse, in my case, it's absolutely true."

Santana cocked her head. "Yeah? Then where's Jesse?"

"A workshop? I think, anyway. My memory is a little fuzzy."

"Your memory's a little fuzzy, because you have a fucking concussion! Your boyfriend is nowhere around. And while I'm pretty sure there's something sus going on, I'm damn certain that Jesse is at the _very least_ a criminally negligent asshole."

"Please don't, Santana. Jesse loves me. A lot. Sometimes it makes him insecure. And he's like me. He gets absorbed in his work," she explained. She knew from the outside looking in her and Jesse were flawed, but it wasn't like _that_.

"Oh fuck this. I'm so out of here." Santana stood. "You think I don't know where this shit leads? I work in the _emergency room_. I see girls like you day and night. And here's a spoiler, Berry, they don't get the happy ending. "

Rachel grabbed her hand before she could take a step.

Santana knew that nobody could make her do anything, so when she fell to the bed again and was tugged into Rachel's arms it wasn't just the tiny hand pulling at her.

"It's okay, Santana," Rachel whispered, wrapping her arms around the taller girl. "I know you're just worried about me. But I'm fine. I promise."

Santana shook her head, a few hacking breaths alerting her to the fact that she was scarily close to tears. "It's not okay." It wasn't even close to okay. She pulled back slightly. Rachel was being so fucking stupid. She was going to get herself seriously injured. Even more injured than a broken face and mild brain damage.

And Santana was going to get her heart broken in the process, she was fucking sure of it.

She leaned forward, capturing Rachel's plump bottom lip between her lips, one hand moving to cup her face.

She didn't know if it was surprise or what, but Rachel's lips parted and Santana deepened the kiss.

Rachel moved even closer, pressing their breasts tightly together, her arms moved restlessly over Santana's back.

Santana let her weight push Rachel into the mattress. Her stomach was fluttering, and the rest of her body felt warm. She settled her body between Rachel's legs, slipping her tongue against Rachel's to kill any protests.

She pressed open mouthed kisses against Rachel's jaw, down her throat, nibbling on the skin between her neck and shoulder till Rachel's hips jerked towards her.

She was already addicted to the high, strangled moans that left Rachel's throat.

Rachel's fingers tangled endlessly into black locks, and she always _meant_ to stop her, but her body always needed just one more touch.

Santana slid the straps of Rachel's slip down her arms, baring her breasts to the cold air. She slicked her tongue over one tightening nipple, waiting for it to pebble before sucking it into her mouth in a long stroke. Rachel went completely silent, eyes flying wide, incapable of doing anything except arching into the hot mouth.

Santana let the flesh slide from her lips with a wet sound. She sat back, lifting Rachel's slip till it covered her midriff and little else. She trailed her nails over Rachel's thighs, teasingly close to her bikini line. The silky flesh trembled under fingers, thighs spreading unconsciously wider.

She wanted to run her fingers over that thin strip of cotton so fucking much, just to feel the heat and willingness of the girl below her.

But that wasn't part of the plan.

Rachel's arms stretched out and Santana met her lips in another long kiss that only made her hotter. Her hand slipped between their bodies. She sunk her teeth into Rachel's lip just hard enough to make her whimper before pressing her hand over her centre. Almost immediately her panties soaked through and it was Santana's eyes that fluttered shut, and her lips that let out an almost pained sound.

Denying herself was physically painful, but she pulled her hand away.

Rachel looked up at her questioningly, but Santana shook her head before she let herself be pulled into another kiss. "Do you want me Rachel?"

"_Yes_," she hissed. She'd never wanted anything more than this in her life. Except, maybe, a Tony, but even that could wait till her body wasn't about to catch fire.

"Not just right now, not just for a night, but for, like, real?"

Rachel hesitated for just a second. "I—I don't know." Even that had too many implications. Everything was happening incredibly fast, and her mind wasn't working particularly well. She wasn't even sure what Santana was doing in her apartment.

"Well you gotta decide, okay?" She straightened Rachel's slip out carefully, almost motherly. "Because I won't share, not even for you. Understand?" She would have sounded almost like herself if it wasn't for the rough, husky voice.

Rachel nodded, arms slipping from Santana's neck. Her body was throbbing uncomfortably, but she managed to get out a weak, "I get it."

Santana stole one chaste kiss before standing up, she was well aware that it might be the last they ever shared.

"I have to go now, if I stay we'll have sex and that's probably not a good idea." Santana didn't know what she was doing. Everything felt strangely unreal. But _good_ unreal, like even if she didn't know _why_ she was doing it, she was doing the right thing. "Mike's going to come round and babysit you till I can be sure you won't, like, die of head trauma on my watch. Try to keep yourself alive while I'm gone, okay?"

"I'll do my best," Rachel pulled the covers over her form, finally feeling embarrassed about her state of…well, whatever she was.

Santana walked away, which might have been the bravest thing she'd ever done.

}{


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: Sorry 'bout the lag peoples. Real life is kicking my ass. And super big apologies with whipped cream to the people who I totally lied to about certain time lines. (I will do better in future!)

I have a feeling you guys won't like this chapter. But it's kind of necessary, otherwise I'm just short-changing these characters. Oh and, once again, I don't actually watch the show, so sorry about any canon-breaking.

}{

Santana slumped against the wall of the elevator, head tipped against the shining glass. She could almost hear the blood returning to her head, leaving her body weak and thrumming with nervous energy.

"Holy fuck," she whispered, letting the words echo in the empty elevator.

There was so, _so_, much wrong with what just happened.

Rachel had a boyfriend. A _fiancé_. A penthouse on the Upper West Side, a flailing Broadway career, and a really hot fucking body. And that's _all_ she knew.

She didn't know Rachel's favourite food. She didn't know what side of the bed she slept on, or what her middle name was. She could fill a whole fucking book with the things she didn't know about Rachel Berry.

And none of that seemed to matter. Because maybe she could pretend, when the lights went out at night, that this was something fleeting, something replaceable, an insignificant crush that would run its course like a bad bout of herpes, but all the lies in the world couldn't stop her heart beating faster or the butterflies in her stomach from going psycho every time Rachel was within touching distance.

She should be terrified. She didn't do relationships. She didn't do commitment and drama, and wouldn't know romance if it was eating her heart out.

And she was scared, not just because she was in too deep and sinking fast, but because she wanted to do all those terrifyingly un-Santana like things with _Rachel_, a girl who may never give her a chance to be the awesome (romantically incompetent) girlfriend she knows she could be.

She snapped out of auto-pilot in the lobby. Ridiculously shiny hair and an insane posture captured her attention.

She feigned distraction with the marble beneath her feet and brushed past him far harder than necessary.

"Santana," he greeted, eyes sullen. He hadn't bought her "accident".

"St. James." Her hands itched with the need to smack him. Just once, that's all she wanted. She could almost see his too-straight nose exploding beneath her fist. "I suppose I won't have to call Mike now, at least."

She'd never liked him, but it was nothing compared to the way he made her blood heat now. "Your girlfriend has a concussion."

She'd actually learnt a fair bit of tact about these things over the years, but it still left her lips like a stinging accusation.

Jesse's eyes widened and he paled to a sickly greyish colour. Too many emotions ran over his face for her to read. "Is she okay?"

Santana snorted inelegantly. "She will be." _No thanks to you. _She listed what he should do, the symptoms he should stay on alert for, all the while studying him maliciously.

She really couldn't stand competition.

She wanted to spout cruel hints about where her fingers had been, snide remarks about his inadequate masculinity. Maybe she could play with his insecurities about Puck.

That was the game that she played—the game she could win.

Instead she spoke curtly, and let her eyes burn with the hatred she felt.

"Thank you for taking care of her then." He smiled blandly, leaving no doubt that he hated her almost as much as she hated him.

"No sweat." She smiled back, or at least bared her teeth. "I'll keep a close eye on her. Two accidents in a month is totally cracked." She tsked playfully, her eyes solemn. It was as close as she could get to a warning.

Jesse made a sound of agreement. If he could sense the undercurrents, he made no sign of it. His smoky-blue eyes were bright and guileless.

She couldn't drive a wedge between Jesse and Rachel.

They were already so close to the edge it left her terrified.

Any dark insinuation she made—how could she know it wouldn't be taken out on Rachel?

Her eyes followed Jesse as he walked away. He would probably go and cuddle up to Rachel, whisper sweet words, touch her like he hadn't tried to break her.

It made her sick.

}{

She heard his shoes across the tiles, the gentle opening and shutting of their bedroom door, but she refused to look away from the ceiling.

He kneeled beside her, not with that dancer's grace that had always seemed so a part of him, but with slow, tired movements, his head bowing close to her shoulder.

He murmured something incomprehensible past the Egyptian cotton.

She knew the words anyway.

_I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry_…

Always she knew his lines as well as he did.

She let him take her hand, even though it laid limp in his grip.

"You _can't_. You can't just apologise and make everything better. It doesn't work like that Jesse!" She looked at him for the first time. His eyes shone, fingers convulsing around her hand as he took in her words. "_We_ can't work like that."

"I _know_," he whispered. "It won't be like that anymore, I swear. Sometimes I just—I don't know how to control myself. All I want is you! And I can hear myself screaming, and I know every word is pushing you away, but I just can't stop!" He bowed his head again, as if looking at her was too painful.

It wasn't okay.

She wasn't happy, and she couldn't remember the last time she was.

She took her hand and rested it on his head. The silky curls beneath her fingers were the most familiar thing in the world. She felt the long sigh leave his body. He inched closer, almost resting against her chest. Her hand slid down the warm skin of his neck.

"You can't just apologize," she whispered again.

He looked up at her, and he was the Jesse she knew better than her own reflection. Determination lit his eyes. "I'll make it better Rachel. _Everything_. I'll replace your trophy. I'll make it all up to you. I'll even learn to like Noah."

She almost smiled.

"Santana said warm water would help with the headache. I'll go fill a bath, okay?"

She nodded, closing her eyes as his lips brushed over her knuckles.

No matter what he did, she could never quite find it in herself to stay mad. She told herself it was because she loved him, because she loved him too much to let them fall apart. And maybe that was a part of it.

But it was more than love.

Jesse _was_ her. Maybe some people would call him her soul mate, but that wasn't quite accurate. He was her imperfect twin, her dark reflection. Every time she looked at him she saw every ounce of her greed and selfishness, drive and desire staring back at her.

They _needed_ each other. Who else would understand them?

Who else would love them?

The only people that had ever loved her, for anything other than her talent, were her parents.

Jesse hadn't even had that much.

She thought he'd been exaggerating about his parent's scorn. Even after Shelby had turned her back on her, she'd held onto a childish belief that parents, _real _parents—who feed, clothe, and raise their children—had to love their offspring. It was just the way the world worked. But she could still remember how Jesse had clung to her when introducing his mother.

Lucille St. James was a full two inches shorter than her and still managed to look down at her. "I hear you sing," she'd stated doubtfully in place of a greeting, every word sharp and precise. Once Lucille had been a great opera singer, but she'd had Jesse on the wrong side of forty, and those high silver notes that only a coloratura soprano can hit were already slipping from her grasp.

"I _am_ a singer," she'd responded savagely. She liked to be polite, and truly wanted to make a good impression on her future mother-in-law, but she drew the line at people questioning her talent.

Lucille raised a brow. "So my son tells me, but I doubt he has the ear to know the difference between a singer and an overpriced stage hand."

Rachel's lips parted and she took a deep breath, intending to list absolutely everything that was wrong with those asinine assumptions, both about herself and her son, but Jesse had squeezed her hand and shook his head minutely.

They stayed for three days out of the one week they'd planned to stay with Jesse's mother. By that time Rachel had been in two screaming matches with the woman and Jesse had been in one. The only thing worse than her criticisms were her compliments. When she demanded an impromptu performance from the play they'd both just finished, she'd praised Jesse's efforts the same way most people talk to children with learning disabilities that had finally learnt something the whole world already knew.

She'd wished the woman a slow and painful death dozens of times for humiliating Jesse, for making him cling to her at night like she might disappear when they fell asleep in the austere room of his childhood. It only made her feel guilty when Lucille had been diagnosed with bone cancer. She and Jesse watched as the petite woman, who had never known the meaning of the word fragile, withered. And she'd watched as Jesse stood hopefully by, waiting for a word, a hint, _anything_ that would prove his mother was proud of him.

It never came.

They buried Lucille beside Jesse's father, an actor of no little fame. Of him, Jesse had said little. Just bitter words about an elderly man who'd denied his son any chance of a normal life in favour of shaping him into a perfect replica that never seemed to be good enough.

It was Jesse's inheritance that let them live easily while most actors in their position struggled every day. He'd bought her engagement ring the week after his mother's funeral. "She'd have thought it an ostentatious atrocity," he'd smirked bitterly.

Rachel had never hated a soul more than she hated that dead soprano

She could trace every one of Jesse's insecurities back to her, all of their worst arguments, even the pounding in her head.

Jesse called her into a bathroom filled with steam and the light fragrance of daisies.

He undressed her with gentle hands, kissing every inch of her skin. "Does it still hurt?" he asked as his lips brushed below her eye. She shook her head, not quite able to form a response as his hands caressed the dips and curves of her body that had already been left without release for too long.

She needed this.

She needed to remind herself that Jesse was her everything, needed to erase the heat and confusion Santana's touch had awakened.

She followed him into their oversized spa, laying against his chest and letting the feel and the sound of the hot water seep into her body. Jesse's hands slipped between her thighs, fingers tracing her slit with the slightest pressure. She mewled in distress.

"You know I'd never hurt you, right?" He slipped two fingers inside her willing body, forcing them slowly through her tight channel.

"Yes," she whimpered, burying her face in his chest and gripping his shoulders.

He withdrew his hand, settling it on her hip instead. She grinded her hips against his, the feel of him hard and straining between their bodies making her crazy. "Now," she demanded, nails biting into his skin.

Jesse shook his head, smiling slightly. He pushed her wet hair from her forehead and cupped her face. The only word she could use to describe his kiss was perfect. His tongue tangled with hers, moving gracefully even as he guided his cock inside her. She moaned into his mouth, struggling to move so she could have him pressed as deep inside her as he could reach. But even though she was above him, he gripped her hard enough that she could barely wriggle. He held her still while he moved slowly inside her with shallow thrusts against her G-spot that left her choking out sounds of almost-pain.

The pressure built inside her slowly. It was a hot ache in her lower stomach that made her feel like her whole body would explode and dissolve into the water around her. She begged prettily till her mind melted and all she could think about was the maddening drags of Jesse's cock against her over-sensitized skin "Please, Jesse. _Please_. God, please! More. Mmmph."

Jesse never once changed pace, not even when his face went slack and his breathing came fast and heavy. He was a perfectionist, a true performer in every sense of the word. Even as every molecule of his body begged him to fuck her faster, he resisted.

For a single glimmering moment the whole world went blank and empty. She couldn't even feel her body quaking. She arched backwards letting out a string of breathless screams as the pressure in her body spilled over. Jesse finally let himself go, slamming into her clenching body as hard and fast as he could till he was emptying himself inside her shuddering heat.

They both sunk bonelessly into the water. It was a lot lower now. They'd lost a lot over the edge during their fun.

She pressed a kiss into the wet skin of Jesse's cheek.

"I love you," he sighed contentedly.

No, she wasn't happy, and she couldn't remember the last time she was.

But Jesse represented all the best and worst of what she was inside, abandoning him would only prove her own failings.

This was the only place she'd ever been loved, and she didn't think she could give that up.

}{


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**: What can I say? I'm a terrible, terrible person. If anyone's still reading, sorry times a bajillion for my meanness :)

}{

She met Puck at a bar halfway between her place and Mike's. _Cloud Lounge_ was too pretentious for words, catering for the few yupsters who had survived past the 90s. Abstract water features hung from the walls, while Asian-looking lanterns had somehow escaped the attention of the fire marshal.

She'd let Puck order for her, so she got stuck drinking a Vesper Martini and trying not to gag with every vicious sip. Puck though he had a chance with the pretty redhead who served them.

"You know these cocktail waitresses probably get hit on ten times a day by lame-ass James Bond wannabes, right?"

He scowled at her briefly before once again checking out the waitress so blatantly it made _her _skin crawl. "But they ain't ever been hit on by _me_."

"Lucky them," she mumbled behind her glass.

He drained his drink, turning away from his prey with a forlorn look. "What's Satan's problem today, anyway?"

"Work sucks. Life blows. Can't get laid." She shrugged. "And that's the good stuff."

Puck looked at her disbelievingly. "At least you're not stuck living with Vanessa. Seriously, Mike's girl has got to go. If you bundled your bitchiness, with Berry's neurosis and Quinn's psychosis, you still wouldn't even have a drop on that chick."

Santana rolled her eyes. She really didn't want another bitch session about how Vanessa made him cradle decoration cushions to the floor before sitting, so they wouldn't get mussed. "Look, whatever, one problem at a time. First we get rid of Rachel's other half and if there's time we'll get back to Mike's bitch infestation."

"What did St. Jerkrag do now?"

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She didn't know what to say. She didn't have proof. All she had was a burning need to see Jesse in pain. "I went to see Rachel this morning. She has a concussion."

The lightness in Puck's eyes died down to a distant glimmer, an unusual seriousness lacing his tone. "And you think he did it?"

"Don't you?"

He thought over his words carefully. "I don't know, Santana. That's serious stuff. You know I can't stand the guy, but Rachel's never even hinted that…"

Her glass slipped from her fingers, the tender base clinking on the table in distress. "And what's the other explanation? Rachel sustains two serious, yet completely unrelated injuries in a month? She's on _Broadway _not a fucking hockey rink."

"But you didn't _see_ anything?"

"No." she replied sullenly, but her mind was pulling her back. Back to that perfectly ordered apartment. Every door was shut, except for one. The office maybe? Blood on the pillow, but not enough considering the cut was still weeping when she'd dressed it. It had to have been cleaned before Rachel got into bed. Her pretty face was sallow from multiple injuries. Her tanned skin had looked perfect in the dim bedroom…but not in the brightly lit bathroom.

"She had bruises on her arm!" she cried almost triumphantly. "Just here." She gestured below her own shoulder for reference. "Could be consistent with finger marks."

She'd probably scanned over Rachel's body out of habit, but like any good doctor, she'd focused on the serious injury and ignored everything else.

Puck looked away. "That doesn't _prove_ anything."

"Fuck you it doesn't! I thought Rachel was 'your Jew' or whatever and now that she needs your help, you just make up pathetic excuses."

His jaw clenched so tightly she wondered how he didn't break anything. "And how exactly am I meant to help?" he demanded. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Shit! I wish you hadn't of told me this."

Inexplicably she felt tears burn behind her eyes. She'd fallen into this mess so hard and so fast, she had yet to catch her breath. She didn't know how to help, but she'd been so certain that Puck would. Rachel had been part of his life before the small brunette had swallowed hers whole.

"Whatever else you were, I never thought you were a coward."

Puck glared at her. "What, you think I'm scared of Jesse?" he scoffed.

"Maybe you just don't want to get involved. Maybe you just don't want to get your lily-white life all dirtied up with someone else's mess."

"Fuck you, San," he told her disgustedly. "I'd do anything for Rach. You want to ride in like a white fucking knight, because five seconds ago you decided you wanted to get into her pants? Too bad. It doesn't work like that."

Now not only were her eyes watering, she had the uncontrollable urge to sniff as well. "You think that's the only reason? I'm not a complete fucking monster, okay. Maybe I just don't want to have to imagine tiny, defenceless girls getting their skulls bashed in."

She would not cry. Not over this. But that didn't mean she couldn't _hurt_.

Puck read her as easily as he always had. "Ah shit," he grumbled, sliding next to her in their booth. "That's not what I meant. It makes me sick thinking about Rachel hurting like that. But Rachel's not '_defenceless'_, San. Not even close and you know it. If I thought it would help, I'd break every bone in Jesse's body, but hurting him—it would only push her away." He hooked his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. "And then you'd never get laid."

She half-smiled. "So what do we do?"

There was a long pause. He hated the answer just as much as she would. "Nothing," he said tiredly. "We can nudge Rachel in the right direction when we can, and let Jesse know we're watching…But, at the end of the day, it's all up to Rachel and there's not a thing in the world we can do to force her. Nobody can make her leave Jesse. Nobody can even make her _want_ to leave him. All we can do is be there."

"That's some sucky wisdom, right there."

He hugged her a little tighter. "Yep."

"I hate when you're right."

"I know."

}{

The lobby was filled with familiar faces: the theatrephiles and culture whores who had never missed an opening night, the small collection of devoted fans who just _knew_ they'd found the next Nathan Lane, and families with their starry-eyed children—just another generation of vicious rivals she'd have to compete with in a few years.

A pretty blonde in her forties clutched her hand and exclaimed what a shame it was that she wasn't performing tonight. It stroked her ego in all the right places, even as she demurely praised Rebecca, her stand-in.

"You and Jesse St. James are just _magical_ on stage. I can't wait to see you together again."

Rachel was relieved when Puck waltzed through the door.

She waved brightly and he grinned as he spotted her.

He gave her a small hug, which couldn't have been more brotherly if he'd pounded her on the back, but for some reason it left her feeling queasy with guilt. She had to remind herself that they weren't doing anything wrong three times before her smile stopped wavering.

She'd never done anything wrong with Puck.

Jesse's insecurities were beyond uncalled for.

So why did she feel like she was in the wrong just for standing beside him?

"Looking good, Jew-Berry." He gave his trademark smirk.

She tugged on the lapel of his jacket. "I almost can't believe you're the same boy who tried to steal an ATM."

He grinned sheepishly. "You're never gonna let that one go are you?"

She giggled but didn't answer. "Where's your date anyway? You know I had to trade down just to get three seats together. Honestly Noah, you really should have informed me of the full party numbers much earlier. Now we're in the back, left orchestra, so we may as well just stand in the middle of 47th and hope for the best. The acoustics would probably be just as good."

A voice chimed in behind her. "Has anyone ever told you you're prone to dramatics?"

Rachel turned slowly.

Santana was dressed in a black, spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress, a layer of sparkling tulle giving some volume to the skirt. Her inky-dark hair was pulled into a tight French twist.

If she'd felt guilty seeing Puck, it was nothing compared to how she felt with Santana.

"I didn't know you would be here tonight."

Santana raised a brow, a flicker in her eyes let Rachel know she'd heard the unease in her voice. "Should I not be here?"

Rachel shook her head mutely. Her face felt hot enough to leave her dizzy and she had to clutch her dress to ease the dampness on her palms.

She couldn't speak until she'd shaken the feeling of Jesse's eyes, harsh and knowing on her back.

Santana simply watched her, a mild challenge in her gaze.

Her words came out soft but earnest. "You look beautiful, Santana."

"We better get inside," Puck suggested. He was far more amused than he should have been.

Santana slid in beside her as they walked through the bustling halls. "We should probably talk."

Rachel nodded but quickened her pace till they were in their seats.

Whatever she was feeling seemed to dissolve along with the theatre's lights.

Her whole body felt aglow when Jesse walked onto the stage. She had to hold her hands together so she didn't applaud recklessly as Jesse's character sang and danced his way from his murderous past into a new life.

The steps were simple, yet clever when put together. She could picture Mike on the front of the stage, easing them all through rehearsals.

But that voice…It was glorious. The gravelly lows and shimmering highs—they were almost too perfect.

Every time Jesse walked on stage, she couldn't help falling a little bit in love.

After getting to New York, she'd quickly realised that there were a hundred girls with voices that rivalled hers, and looks that left her feeling like a frumpy fifteen-year-old, but she'd yet to meet a single person that could make her feel the way Jesse did when he was on stage.

When the curtains closed for intermission, Santana dragged Rachel's still dreamy form into an empty alcove.

Both girls leant against opposing columns.

Rachel twirled the star on her finger nervously while Santana stared her down.

"So do you come to the theatre much?"

"Seriously?' Santana choked. "No, Rachel. I find the way they're covered in more red velvet than a French brother, with stupid reliefs carved into every spare inch of stone a little much for my taste."

Rachel's lips parted twice without response. Santana grinned evilly.

"Well," she huffed, "if anything is entitled to a little theatrics, it must be the theatre."

It's was funny how everything that came out of Rachel's mouth seemed far more charming than it should have.

Santana took four large steps to stand within touching distance of Rachel.

"You haven't called." Santana hadn't really expected anything different. "I suppose that says enough."

"I didn't know what to say."

Santana reached out to touch the single sleeve of Rachel's blush-coloured dress. "I like this, by the way."

Her fingers dipped below the strap, tracing down Rachel's arm. She circled the faint green skin that she was certain few others had spotted. Her expression turned melancholy so quickly it almost frightened Rachel.

"What?" Her eyes followed the path of Santana's fingers. "Oh. I bumped into a cupboard."

"I know," Santana agreed ironically. Her lips quirked sadly. For a good actress, Rachel had some less than mediocre lies.

Rachel felt so perfect. Her body was only millimetres away, her skin warm and smooth in her palm.

She brushed her lips against Rachel's once, twice, and swallowed the shuddering breath she let out. Kissing Rachel was far too natural.

"Please don't," Rachel asked painfully.

Santana stilled, their noses still touching gently. "Why?"

If Rachel felt even half of what Santana did, her skin had to be unhealthily hot, and her stomach whirring painfully with pure need. If she had that same aching hollow inside her, she would not be asking to stop for anything.

Rachel tilted her head back, drawing in oxygen fast enough for her rocketing pulse. "Because—because I'm not that girl. I saw Rebecca about to buy an ice-cream from a vendor that was clearly ill and I told her not to."

"Um?"

Rachel fixed her eyes on Santana, begging her to understand. "I could have let her eat it. I could have prayed that she caught whatever disgusting illness was being traded around in the dessert. And I would have been happy when she was too sick to perform. But I didn't. I can't be that selfish diva who takes what she wants without caring about the consequences."

She'd worked really hard to not be that person. In high school she's pushed for everything so hard she'd broken every one of her friendships more than once.

"I wish you were," Santana told her honestly.

Rachel clutched at her starry-diamond so hard there'd be tooth marks in her fingers. "If Jesse ever knew about this," fear ate at her pallor, "he'd _never_ recover."

Santana barely held back a spiteful cheer.

"Why do you stay with him? Because it's easy? Because he can sing?" she demanded, bewildered. _She_ could sing. Maybe not _quite_ as good as him, but she was still way cuter than Jesse St. James would _ever_ be.

"Because I love him."

_Ouch_.

Santana fought to keep her tone light. "Couldn't you love me?"

All the air in the room seemed to disappear.

Rachel couldn't even swallow away the dryness in her throat.

Santana continued as if her heart wasn't about to explode in distress. "I think I could love—"

"_Don't_."

Santana looked away. She backed up, crossing her arms over her chest.

"If you say that, someone's going to end up hurt. I really don't want that person to be me, but I really, _really_ don't want it to be you."

"Then stop looking at me like you want me! And saying things like you care! And stop kissing me like _that_! _What do want from me_?"

Rachel slid back onto the column, letting it take the weight from her trembling legs.

"Just you, I guess,"

Santana relaxed slightly. "See that's the kind of shit you gotta stop saying."

"I know. It's just, I don't have all that many friends. I have Mike, who likes me _despite _of everything that I am. And I have Noah, who is never here and when he is, I can't be the kind of friend I want, because I'm too worried about…Well, most days all I really have is Jesse." She tilted her head regarding Santana carefully. "And then there's you."

"Me."

"Yeah."

Santana didn't know whether to cry or laugh. She didn't want to be friends. She _never_ wanted that, but she could already feel herself agreeing. The way Rachel looked at her—like she was something outrageously special—it shouldn't even be legal. That look was practically duress.

"Intermission is over."

"I didn't notice."

Santana went with laughter.

Rachel could tell herself whatever lies she liked about Jesse.

He didn't stand a chance against Santana Lopez.

}{


End file.
